


Salvageable (Vivienne+Blackwall)

by BreadedSinner



Series: Salvageable/Not Salvageable [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Developing Friendships, Gen, Trapped
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-12-05 17:24:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11582736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BreadedSinner/pseuds/BreadedSinner
Summary: Vivienne and Blackwall--or Thom Rainier, as he was recently revealed to be--get injured and separated from the group. While waiting for rescue, they do something they never thought to do: get to know each other.





	Salvageable (Vivienne+Blackwall)

Vivienne set on a flat bed of stone, stranded in a pool of rubble. She looked up at the moons and contemplated all the missteps that lead her to this position. The forward charge was not the best strategy for dragons, especially in the Hissing Waste; a flat expanse of purple sand, with no cover to speak of. But the Inquisitor’s bravado was infectious, and she trusted them, that much she did not regret. A few warnings would not have disturbed that trust, though. Then, there was the barrier she had cast a moment too late, her lightning spell that did not reach the extra hair it needed to, and the team combination utterly lacking in synergy. But again, she trusted the Inquisitor’s choices.

 The chasm she sat in was wide; the final blow to the dragon sent it and half the party crashing down, swallowed by soft earth and sand. Its cold scaly carcass swam in its own blood in the shadows, bringing down chunks of earth and rock with it. The moonlight cast upon her from a long, tunneling mouth of rock and chipped wood, much too high to simply climb back up. So she was stuck there, marooned within the earth, hoping the Inquisitor’s promised rescue would come before the stench wafted to her side of the chasm and took over. Waiting until they came back with help to fish her out. Her and the other member of their synergy-lacking party.

On the far side of the collapse, Blackwall–or Thom Rainier, as he was recently revealed to be–was chipping away at an old-cave-in with his axe. He flattened his palms and felt around for openings until he wedged himself out of Vivienne’s sight. She took the time to breathe, let the cool night breeze swirl over her, let the calm overcome the needling anxiety she felt when around him, sharpened when they were alone.

The fall had twisted her ankle and ripped her dress. She sighed at the mess, and her hands gave a soft, sea-green glow. She waved them over her skin until the beads of blood sank back in, tendons straightened, scrapes softened. The immediate pain softened, though an ache lingered. She could get up and walk if she had to, but better not to stress it.

 When that was done, she flattened out her dress as best she could across her lap. A once magnificent skirt of glimmering royal sea silk, split through the hem, spreading into the inseam like a disease.

She huffed in displeasure, thinking how a woman of her standing would be expected to do away with it. That was always one aspect of Orlesian culture Vivienne could never fully swallow. Excessive living, excessive wasting. Empress Celene herself was never seen in the same outfit twice, and every noble attempted to do the same. The worn outfits would either be stored away to collect dust in some cavernous closet, or completely destroyed. 

But this sea silk was of such fine texture. A smooth, comforting slip against her skin, paired with an elegant silvery color, like cool melding glass, like threaded moonlight. The fabric was especially luminous under the starry night sky, as if enchanted to feed upon the glow of the heavens. And it was made special for her; even running the rip against her thumbs, she could feel the detail of every individual, painstaking stitch.

She summoned a bead of magic, glowing green at her fingertips, and ran it across the rip, like flattening out a wrinkle on a bed sheet. As the magic flowed, the stitch came together, weaving themselves stronger than ever, until there was no sight of an accident. A smooth, silky, silvery surface, the floral patterns together again. Eventually she would have to do away with the dress, to keep appearances, but nothing went to waste. She would see that it came to worthy hands, as all her old garments did.

Blackwall hesitated, seeing her indifferent gaze. “Well,” finally dribbled out after a long pause. “We could have fallen into worse places. There’s an old passage. Dwarven, I think. I’ve cleared through most of the rubble. Should take us back to the surface.”

“We should wait for the Inquisitor,” she replied, voice flat, staring at the dragon’s blood as it slowly filled another crevice.

“I’m not suggesting we walk all the way back to Skyhold ourselves. The Inquisitor is probably on their way as we speak. We could at least meet them halfway.”

“So you single-handedly cleared this long-abandoned passageway of all debris, traps, and fiends? In an hour’s time?”

He winced. “It’s a bit of a climb.”

She turned to him, sighing. “At least we have a head start when the rescue party comes, so thank you for that. I would have assisted, but I was minding a twisted ankle.”

“You’re injured?”

“Nothing I could not fix.”

“I… apologize. I never noticed, I did not think to ask how you were faring.”

“Nothing you could have done.”

“I had just assumed that…”

“That I wanted to be left alone, so you immediately ran off to perform some menial task, lest we have to talk to one another to pass the time?”

Blackwall took a hard swallow before me mustered a meager, “…Yes.”

Vivienne squinted, studying Blackwall’s awkward shuffle in the shadows of the collapse. Under faint moonlight, she spotted a pained hitch in his movement. A stilted, stiff roll of the shoulder.

“You’re injured, as well.”

“You can tell?”

“Yes, and it looks rather serious. Mine was minor, though the ache still resonates a bit. You’re carrying yourself in a clumsy way, you’re in pain.”

“An astute observation, as always.”

“I would have noticed sooner but you fled as soon as we fell. Now stop stalling and come here a moment.”

He made the small climb, grunting, and sat next to her on the bedrock. The moonlight highlighted a few silver hairs sprouting in random places across his beard. Somehow he seemed even more unkempt than usual; scraggly strays and splinters everywhere. Ruddy red bags flopped beneath his glazed iron eyes.

“Maker’s breath,” she gasped. “No wonder you fled to the shadows. You look dreadful.”

Blackwall grimaced, deepening the bags on his eyes and the furrow of his brow. “So you’ve been saying since the day we met.”

“Not like this! Now you look half dead. Have you been getting enough sleep?”

“Madame Vivienne, let’s not do this. I know I make you uncomfortable. I make everyone uncomfortable. I can stand the pain, I’ve been standing it for a while, not like I don’t deserve it. I’ll just go stand over there and…”

“What’s making me most uncomfortable are your excuses. You’re already here, I’m offering help, it would be rude to refuse it.”

“But…”

“No buts, if you please. I’ll not drag your corpse through the passage when help arrives. Just remove your armor, let’s not allow it to get any worse.”

“I wouldn’t ask this favor. I can bear it until I see the surgeon in Skyhold.”

“It’s not a favor. Whatever my opinion is of you personally, we’re both a part of something greater, the Inquisition. Apart from that, the Inquisitor clearly cares about you, and I care about them. So…”

“I see. All right, I’ll stop my fussing.”

“That’s better.”

The metal clanked on the rock as he unstrapped his chest plate. He wound his arm and gripped his shoulder, groaning at the pain.

“Your shoulder, then,” she observed. “We can’t have that. You’re no use to anyone without your shield arm. Now off with the gambeson.”

He shrugged. “Must I? You’re using magic, doesn’t it just…work through clothes?”

“We’re not in battle and the injury is older. Do you want it done the right way, or would you rather it fester?”

 "Sorry,“ he said, taking off the gambeson and positioning himself so his back was facing Vivienne.

"This won’t take long,” she said as green light budded in her palms, encircling her hands, engulfing her fingers. “Do try and remain still.”

When she felt the healing magic fill both hands, like holding an evenly split hourglass, she motioned her open palms over his upper back. It was a broad, hairy canvas of weathered skin, scattered with tense muscles, discolored patches and long-settled scars. Her fingers twitched as she focused her magic on the fresh wound, tingling on her tips as the light tied up stressed threads of his muscle. As she mended the source of the problem, Blackwall groaned, poorly hidden through gnashed teeth, a quiver shooting up his spine.

“Just a few moments longer,” she said softly as she tied the together the last loosened thread. “You’ve clearly been hurt a number of times, and left your injuries to heal on their own. Have you never gone to a healer?”

He forced a laugh. “They don’t exactly have one on every corner.”

“Yes, but every Circle deploys trained mages during a military campaign. Even an Enchanter is sent as an assigned healer in Grand Melees and Tourneys. You must have had access to them when you were a Captain in Orlais.”

“Captain Rainier took pride in his appearance, even if he wasn’t all that handsome to begin with. It never got that bad. He fought like an animal, healed quickly, and got back up like nothing could touch him.”

“As opposed to…Warden Blackwall?”

“Yes. He had a number of scars and he wore them proudly. He got them from protecting others, and that was nothing to be ashamed of.”

“But surely there were mage Wardens at his side, ones who could heal him.”

“Probably. When we first met, he told me he was like me before joining the Wardens, reckless, directionless, and crude. Never got the chance to ask for details. I’m sure I wasn’t impressed at the time. Chevaliers and the like never saw the value of scars, their armor was supposed to be spotless forever, somehow.”

“I see.”

“You must know it’s not so easy to just have every injury healed at a moment’s notice? Cassandra and Bull are worse off than I am.”

“I don’t mean it like that. I see these old wounds and it looks as though you barely attempted to treat them yourself. As if every one might kill you, and you would just allow it to happen.”

He only grunted in response.

“You’ve wanted to die for some time, haven’t you?”

“It’s nothing you need to concern yourself with. I thought you, of all people, would be happy to see me done away with.”

“Believe it or not,” she sighed, “it does me no pleasure to see you suffer as you do. I am not so callous as to rub salt in your wounds as you bleed to death.”

“I never said…”

“You’ve been reckless, even more so than usual. You still wish to die.”

“That’s not entirely true,” he grumbled.

“Yet you feel you must. Even after the Inquisitor spared you, gave you this chance, you still see yourself as unworthy. You do realize, by acting this way, you’re throwing the Inquisitor’s gift back in their face. A waste.”

“I’ve been living this way for some time, Madame Vivienne. It’s not something that just goes away. You don’t need to feign pity now.” Blackwall reached for his gambeson, slowly rotating the injured shoulder, getting ready to wrap himself back up the moment she was finished. “It feels better.”

“Not finished yet, but you’re welcome.”

“You… have more of a knack for this than I realized.”

“When I was first brought to the Circle, I only wanted to be a healer. I wanted to tend to soldiers with broken bones and weary souls. Perhaps if things had gone differently, you and I would have met in an infirmary somewhere.”

He shook his head. “You might hate Blackwall, but you would’ve hated Rainier more, I promise you that.”

“I don’t hate you. I never hated you.”

“You should have, and you should now. I’ve been nothing but cruel to you. This is, ironically, the most polite conversation we’ve had.”                            

“I’m not going to feed into your self pity. Right now it’s more irritating than the lie.”            

“Of course you think that. You never make any mistakes. Has nothing you’ve done ever haunted you?”  

“Don’t try to turn this against me. I should have suspected you worked for Orlesian nobility, only they could be so passive aggressive!”  

He sighed, already defeated. On his hunched back, his scratches shrunk, the fresh wound on his shoulder subsided into a flesh colored bump. “I don’t want to fight you.”

“Because you know I’m right, or because you just don’t want to?”

“Both, all right? I tire of this.”  

“What do you even want me to say? ‘Oh, don’t fret, darling, you’ve killed more people on the way here’. It’s done and nothing will change that. But you’ve been given a second chance. Don’t waste it.”

“Why are you suddenly so bent on getting to know me? Did the Inquisitor ask you to do this?”

“No, I simply…” Vivienne chewed her lip, a rare fumbling for an answer. There was a long silence, an engulfing space between them, filled only by the whirring of her magic and the faint rustles of animals in the Wastes.

After a deep breath, she said, “Because we’re not so different, I’ve come to realize. You’re not the only one who’s suffered from scheming nobles and the Game.”

Blackwall looked over his shoulder, bushy brow raised in surprise. “I thought you enjoyed the Game.”

“Wouldn’t you enjoy beating people who have done you wrong? Seeing the devastation in their faces, knowing they were planning to throw you to the wolves once they had the chance? Can you honestly tell me Thom Rainier was not like that at all?”

He slumped and sighed. “I can’t. Had things gone differently, he might have enjoyed being a pawn. Or dead.”

“I was speaking hypothetically before, but it’s possible our paths have already crossed years ago, completely unaware, at some random noble party. Soldiers are brought to parade around, as are mages.”

“I doubt it, I would have remembered a face such as yours.”

Vivienne stopped her spell in a snap reflex, holding her open palm over her mouth as she laughed. “Masks, darling. Hence my saying unaware.”

He chuckled, “Even so.”

She went back to casting. “Have you ever wondered why a mage would willingly throw herself to the Game?”

“It’s crossed my mind.”

“Because I knew I could be the best healer, mend every wound, but that would never change why soldiers were sent into battle. I could pass every test and become the greatest Enchanter in the Circle, but it wouldn’t stop the ignorance people have about magic, mage or no. I could live a passable, comfortable life, and leave it as though I never existed at all. One day I decided it was simply too frightening to accept.”

“That’s…” Blackwall lowered his head, ran a hand through his tangles, mind sputtering. “A lot more noble than any intention Thom Rainier ever had. I admit, it was easier to simply assume you wanted what every other noble wanted.”

“I can still want things for myself. One does not need to be self-sacrificing every moment of their lives to be good. Keeps one sane, I believe.”

“I would not have agreed a few days ago, but I was clearly wrong about a lot of things. Especially you.”

“I only mean it’s good to take pride in one’s self, and to want things.”

“I see.”

“…In any case, apologue accepted.”      

She retracted her hands, and the magic faded. She looked over her work; his back was still irreparably scarred, but the fresh bruises were wiped clean. “It’s done,” she said. “You can put your armor back on.”

He slowly slid his arms through the sleeves, though he groaned through gritted teeth.

“The pain doesn’t go away all at once, I’m afraid.”

“It’s all right, I already feel a difference. I don’t know how I can repay you.”

“Well… you could start by taking better care of yourself,” she reached for him, ghosted a single finger on the outline of his beard. “You might even pass for handsome if you trimmed your hair.”                                                                                                                                                      

“You mean lose the beard?”    

“No, no, just a trim. Must weigh on you. At least enough so that I can see a person underneath.”              

“I told you, Thom Rainier was not much to look at.”  

“You let me be the judge of that.”

“I suppose I’m due for a few changes.”              

A  voice dropped down from the surface, funneling through the layers of rock. Vivienne and Blackwall looked up and found a spiked helm staring back, waving. “Hello down there!” it said. “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long.”

“Nothing we could not endure, my dear,” Vivienne said cheerfully, waving back. “Although we didn’t exactly stick the landing, either. I hope you brought more than rope.”

A crumbling sound echoed from the far side of chasm. Rocks and rubble tumbled at the feet of Inquisition workers, carefully clearing the cave-in with proper tools, where Blackwall had blundered before.

A small group of soldiers followed close behind. “The way’s all clear,” one of them said. “How badly are you two injured? Can you walk?”

Blackwall, already on his feet, turned to Vivienne and extended his hand to her.

Vivienne slowly hoisted herself upward, a wince and crinkle cornering her eyes as she put pressure on her ankle. “The pain doesn’t go away all at once, but I should be fine to walk, if there are no obstacles.”

“If it’s all the same to you, Lady Vivienne, I would prefer to carry you out.”  

She placed her hand in his, the weight of his calloused fingers felt like bricks clenching at her skin. Everything about him was always so coarse and unruly. But as she careened herself into his arms, she felt restraint in his motions; something that could even become tender, one day.

Then he hissed and toppled over,

“Oh!” Vivienne gasped, her free hand reflexively pressed against’ Blackwall’s chest, but he recovered with a bent knee, slow and controlled enough for Vivienne to step out of his hold.

She laughed. “I did say the pain lingers, my dear. Though I do appreciate the attempt at gallantry.”

“I’ll just have to try and rescue you from something else, I suppose.”

“Until then.”

He clasped the very tips of her fingers, and they passed through the clearing. 


End file.
